She sat and leaned against the wall. Grime had turned her cuticles black. Her skin itched everywhere. She needed a bath. A change of outfit would help her mood, too. And time in the kitchen. When was the last time she’d cooked? When had she eaten? She imagined the aroma of roasted pasilla and cumin and salivated.

When the person after her in line cleared their throat, she opened her eyes. Had she dozed off without realizing it? Probably. She stood and moved two feet up.

WELGA

19. Given that our treatment of other intelligent creatures—living, mechanical, or virtual—is fundamentally flawed, how do we move forward as a civilization? We cannot exploit another intelligence for our own gain without its consent, even if (and perhaps especially if) it’s unable to give consent. How do we allow our lives to intersect and interact? By learning to live in harmony.

—The Machinehood Manifesto, March 20, 2095

The utility seats in the troop transport rattled and bucked from air turbulence. Welga leaned her head forward so she wouldn’t smack the hull as hard. Passenger airplanes were better, but sub-orbs were best. Up, down, a smooth arc in between, and all over in an hour or two. At least the aircraft’s shaking hid her own. Her muscles trembled at her extremities, and her head wobbled like an old person’s. What other symptoms awaited her? At some point, exhaustion overwhelmed the discomfort, and she fell asleep.

They landed at Travis Air Force Base, where a master sergeant sorted them. He assigned a small four-by-four manual truck to Welga. She tried to hold the wheel steady and almost confessed right there on the tarmac. Suck it up, buttercup. She clenched trembling fists around the steering wheel.

Mama had always said, Ayalas don’t quit until they’re dead. Welga wouldn’t give up either. She’d always needed a goal in life, the bigger the better. As long as the Machinehood had power and she had the capacity to stop them, she would move forward. Launching a slow-fast-food movement sounded trivial in comparison. If there was ever a time to embrace her Ayala half, it was now.

Conditions along the way were worse than her trike ride into DC, the carnage of bots so thick in places that she had to drive over them. Good thing she had a military truck with high clearance. She expected to need an armored vehicle, too, but the violence was all directed at bots and WAI-based devices.

She had to buy zips. Welga took a detour toward the Tenderloin, parking the truck on a street lined with recently constructed hives. She pulled her hair down and mussed it. The unwashed look came gratis, courtesy of three days without a shower.